


iZombae

by Ellieb3an



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Makki is still himself he just needs Mattsun to bring brains home from work XD, Not zombies in the traditional sense, Post-Time Skip, izombie au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27220633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellieb3an/pseuds/Ellieb3an
Summary: He’s still Hanamaki in between his “moments.” He just has cold hands that don’t ever really warm up. And a pulse that’s barely there. And white hair roots that they touch up every week. And a penchant for hot sauce, even on his beloved cream puffs. And a craving for human brains.It’s really not all that weird when you get used to it.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 26
Kudos: 69





	iZombae

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to [slumber](https://twitter.com/slumberish) for first coming up with the idea of these two in a canon-compliant iZombie au and for suggesting that I draw them... which spiraled into this haha. 
> 
> This fic fits right into canon post-timeskip when Mattsun works at a funeral home and Makki is between jobs. Knowledge of iZombie isn't necessary since I just used the type of zombies from that in this and Mattsun sort of explains what it's like as the fic goes along.

When the zombie apocalypse comes, it’s not quite like movies and television and comics would have people believe. There are no reanimated corpses moaning and wandering in the streets, no hordes of the undead bursting through doors and devouring families, no societal upheaval or escaping cities for less crowded safe havens.

No, in fact, it’s not much of an apocalypse at all. No one even knows it’s happening, and the world isn’t ending. Except for, maybe, Hanamaki’s.

It’s a normal Tuesday evening, when Matsukawa is returning to his apartment after work—from a funeral service full of tearful friends and family crying over their dearly departed loved one—that he learns that _his_ best friend/partner-in-crime/boyfriend/soulmate is dead.

Or, rather, undead.

The lights are on in his apartment when he opens the door. He’s sure he didn’t leave them that way, but lights already on usually mean Hanamaki has decided to let himself in—invited or otherwise. Today is the latter and unusual in that Hanamaki should be at work in Tokyo on a Tuesday. He hasn’t heard from him all day. Not for the past two days, in fact.

“Hiro?” Matsukawa calls out as he slips off his shoes in the entrance. 

There’s a gentle thud and some shuffling from the kitchen, and Matsukawa frowns at the lack of verbal response. “Takahiro, is that you?”

He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he rounds the corner, but it certainly isn’t the entire contents of his fridge spread out across the island counter, lids removed, packaging torn open, individual bites and spoonfuls taken out of just about everything they could be, nothing actually appearing to have been eating beyond that. A figure in a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, standing with his back to Matsukawa and his palms flat to the counter as he hunches over it.

Matsukawa isn’t sure what to make of the situation, so he settles for a laugh—aims for amused and exasperated but succeeds more at uncomfortable because the vibe he’s getting from Hanamaki right now is not light, regardless of the chaotic messy kitchen around them. “Hiro, what’s all this? Came all this way to surprise me and make a mess of my house, you asshole?”

Hanamaki shakes his head but doesn’t turn around. “Issei, something happened…”

His voice is a thin, strained imitation of the sound that usually fills Matsukawa with warmth, and Matsukawa immediately rounds the island to get to his side. Hanamaki turns his face away when he gets there.

“Hey, what is it?” Matsukawa set his hand on Hanamaki’s—pale and icy cold—and Hanamaki yanks it out of his grasp with a shaky breath and shoulders up by his ears as he backs away.

“I’m sorry, I…”

And that’s when Matsukawa gets a good look at Hanamaki’s face beneath the hood. Pale skin like the corpses that come into the funeral home, deep purple circles around his eyes, lips nearly colorless. And his hair is even more startling—completely white.

He looks like he’s dying. He looks like he’s already dead. 

He looks completely panicked and terrified and like he’s restraining himself from leaping at Matsukawa.

“What happened to you?”

Hanamaki’s back hits the wall and he scrambles to grab something, anything, before his hand lands in the handle of the refrigerator beside him. Seeming slightly more grounded, he swallows. “Issei, I need your help. And I don’t think it’s exactly legal.”

***

Hanamaki has to quit his job. Has to end his lease on his shitty apartment in Tokyo. There are too few resources for his _condition_ there and too many people around if he can’t get what he needs and things go wrong. His constantly changing moods and evolving habits don’t work well with his office job anyway. 

It’s not having Hanamaki sharing his apartment that’s the biggest adjustment for Matsukawa, because he’s been wanting them to settle down in one place for a long time anyway. No, it’s the revolving door of additional _guests_ that really takes some getting used to.

Not that they’re actual physical guests. Just the ones who take up temporary residence in Hanamaki’s head with each brain he consumes.

Because Hanamaki is a brain-eating, spray-tanning, hair-dyeing zombie who commits crimes against food on the daily by drowning his every meal in hot sauce. 

He’s lucky to have a boyfriend whose job gives him access to the human brains he needs to retain his own humanity. He’s less lucky to have to experience the memories and take on the personality traits of every person whose brain he eats. 

Sometimes it’s useful—Matsukawa doesn’t really mind coming home to an obsessively organized apartment considering he’s no good at keeping things organized himself. Sometimes it’s hilarious—Hanamaki under the influence of a shoujo-loving brain is so blackmail-worthy that Matsukawa has a ton of videos stored in his phone. Sometimes, though, it’s downright frustrating—heartbreaking even when Hanamaki spends a few days on the brain of an agoraphobic recluse that has him panicking at the thought of leaving the apartment. 

They make it work, though, because he’s still Hanamaki in between his “moments.” He’s still loving and funny and flirts shamelessly, throwing bad pickup lines and casual innuendos Matsukawa’s way without a care for who overhears them. 

He just has cold hands that don’t really warm up, even between Matsukawa’s. And a pulse that’s barely there when Matsukawa sneakily—not-so-sneakily, really, because he knows Hanamaki knows what he’s doing—checks in his wrist when they’re holding hands sometimes. And white hair roots that they touch up every week. And a penchant for hot sauce, even on his beloved cream puffs that he never would have before desecrated in such a way. And a craving for human brains. 

It’s really not all that weird when you get used to it.

***

“I could be a homicide detective,” Hanamaki suggests one night as they’re snuggled up on the couch watching some true crime show that’s come on the television.

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow in question. “Oh?”

“Yeah, just think about it,” Hanamaki reasons. “I’ve got a unique skill set for the job.”

“And what’s that, exactly?”

Hanamaki sighs and rolls his eyes dramatically. “I could eat the brains of the murder victims, obviously, and solve the crimes.”

“Hm,” Matsukawa replies thoughtfully. “But then how would you explain all your incredible hunches?”

“Detective intuition?”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It should be. They’d solve more crimes.”

“The police force isn’t made up of zombies.”

“Details,” Hanamaki said, waving a hand dismissively in front of him. “I could claim to be psychic, then.”

They both stare at each other contemplatively for a while before their expressions crack, matching smiles and laughter shaking them. 

“You, a psychic detective,” Matsukawa says between breathless laughs. “Could you even imagine?”

Hanamaki smacks his arm. “I thought when we decided I needed to find a new job you said I could be anything I wanted to be!”

But he throws his head back and laughs, hysterical as Matsukawa’s fingers dig into the ticklish spot at his side that hasn’t gone away just because he’s a zombie. 

Hanamaki’s giggles are still like music to him, too.

***

Chef brain should be a great one, Matsukawa assumes, as Hanamaki digs into the latest meal he’s brought home from work. Hanamaki has never been much of a cook, so it’s not like Matsukawa ever expects him to do it now. And Matsukawa likes cooking, usually, but he wouldn’t complain if Hanamaki felt like cooking for a few days.

How wrong he is.

After the first taste of a curry that is so spicy that an entire ocean couldn’t soothe the fire in Matsukawa’s throat, he resolutely declares he’s never eating anything Hanamaki cooks again.

Hanamaki sniffs, nose in the air. “Some people just don’t have a refined palette.”

***

They don’t know how many others are out there, though Tokyo certainly has a few. It’s where Hanamaki got infected—a scratch from someone (presumed by him to be) high on drugs who rammed into him during a late walk home—and there are occasional reports of strange deaths in the city. Those never seem to occur beyond there, so it must be a contained problem.

Sometimes Hanamaki talks about wanting to find out. Sometimes he says he’s afraid to know. Sometimes he wonders if he has a responsibility to or if just laying low and ensuring he doesn’t infect anyone else is enough.

If the zombie apocalypse were going to start from all this, it would have by now, right?

Matsukawa personally thinks Hanamaki has enough on his plate just trying to adjust to his new normal of constant mood changes and temp work as he tries to find a job that suits his unique situation.

The world gets a lot smaller when you have to drop the whole life you knew and can only tell one person why.

***

One afternoon, Matsukawa arrives home to find a ball of black fluff with one bright yellow eye staring at him from underneath his coffee table and Hanamaki lying on his stomach on the floor a few feet ahead of it, patiently waiting with a can of tuna.

“Is that a cat?”

“Yeah,” Hanamaki says softly and doesn’t bother looking at him. “Try not to make a whole lot of noise. He’s nervous being in a new place.”

Matsukawa blinks. “ _Why_ is there a cat in our apartment?” 

“Well, I couldn’t very well let him starve on the street, could I?” Hanamaki says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Look at him. He’s just skin and bones.”

“And a lot of fur.”

Matsukawa doesn’t mind that actually. He likes cats. He’d maybe even _have_ a cat if it weren’t for the fact that he has a boyfriend who is distinctly _not_ a cat person. And the fur is only one of the reasons Hanamaki has explained his dislike of them.

Apparently, animal shelter volunteer brain is driving today.

“We have a vacuum and a lint roller,” Hanamaki says, and then he gives Matsukawa wide, pleading eyes.

“You know it’s not going to be _me_ who regrets you adopting a cat when you’re under the influence.”

Hanamaki pouts. “You make it sound like I’m on drugs.”

“Before zombification, I would have said you were if you showed up wanting to keep a cat.”

“People change. Look at me, I change weekly.”

Matsukawa snorts and crouches beside him to look at the cat, which backs away a bit, ears folded back on his head and its single eye watching them both warily. It’s clearly a stray, from the look of its coat, and Matsukawa feels bad about the thought of turning it out on its own again.

Besides, it might be nice for Hanamaki to have the extra company around. 

He sighs. “If you decide to keep it and let me get attached, you don’t get to change your mind later when you’re off animal rescue brain,” he warns. “And you’re the one scooping the litter box.”

The latter threat is half-hearted at best because he _knows_ it’s Hanamaki’s biggest argument against cats normally, but Hanamaki nods. “You got it.”

(Spoiler alert: Matsukawa ends up scooping the litter box more often than not.)

“What are we going to name him then?” Matsukawa asks.

They both scrutinize the cat for a moment, and suddenly the image of Hanamaki’s college roommate with his ridiculous hair fills Matsukawa’s head. They look at each other, and he knows Hanamaki has had the same thought as they both grin and speak in unison.

“Kuroo.”

***

“I wanna tell Iwaizumi.”

Matsukawa looks up from the frying pan to gauge the expression on Hanamaki’s face—serious if a little uncertain, which is understandable considering no one aside from Matsukawa knows why he suddenly abandoned his life in Tokyo. 

“Are you thinking of calling him or… ?”

Hanamaki frowns, pursing his lips as he pours hot sauce into the cup of tea he’s just made. “He’s going to be in town next weekend. Asked if we could all get together. I figure we can tell him then. I think he probably wants to pry about my ‘quarter-life crisis’ anyway, so might as well give it to him.”

Matsukawa nods and focuses back on the meal he’s cooking. “Do you think he can handle it?” he asks lightly, not trying to sound too concerned—he isn’t really, anyway, not about Iwaizumi.

Hanamaki snorts. “It’s Iwaizumi. He’s put up with Oikawa all his life. What can’t he handle?”

“Pretty sure Oikawa never had a craving for brains or could start a zombie apocalypse,” Matsukawa teases. 

Hanamaki grins and takes a sip of hot sauce flavored tea. “No, he just uses so much hair product that he’s single-handedly destroying the planet and making himself stupid. Who’s the real monster?”

“You for ruining my favorite tea.”

“It was a gross tea before my taste buds died. This is definitely an improvement.”

“Having literally no taste now suits you, you monster.”

Hanamaki laughs, loud and bright, and bumps his hip against Matsukawa’s. “Makes you a monster fucker then, doesn’t it?”

 _I wish,_ Matsukawa wants to say, but he just chuckles instead. 

They haven’t had sex in a long time. They can’t. They don’t know if Hanamaki can infect him that way, and because they don’t know, they can’t.

It took weeks for Matsukawa to even convince Hanamaki to kiss him again, and for days after, Hanamaki watched his every move around the apartment with this scrutinizing look and his lip trapped between his teeth like he was worried Matsukawa would drop undead any moment. At least now he gives his kisses more easily again and hangs all over Matsukawa as casually as before, but sometimes Matsukawa wants to just throw his boyfriend over his shoulder and toss him onto his bed and have really fantastic sex with him. 

Hell, he’d even take really awful sex like that first time as clumsy, horny eighteen-year-olds who had no idea what they were doing but at least could laugh about it when Hanamaki elbowed him in the chin taking his shirt off or Matsukawa went way overboard on the lube. 

Hanamaki seems to see through Matsukawa’s laughter, though, and presses a kiss to the back of his neck before hooking his chin over his shoulder.

They’re quiet for a while. It’s not until Matsukawa is turning off the stove that Hanamaki speaks again, voice light and mischievous. 

“So I have an idea to break the ice before I tell him.”

***

Hanamaki bests the undefeated (and unofficial) arm wrestling champion of Aoba Johsai High for the first time ever the following weekend. He’d never been able to get a win against him back in high school, though he came close a few times, so imagine Iwaizumi’s surprise when Hanamaki beats him easily once and then again best out of three and best out of five. Hanamaki doesn’t even _try_ to make it look hard either, just keeps his chin and his eyes down so Iwaizumi doesn’t see the flash of red in them while Matsukawa laughs at Iwaizumi’s expression.

Another little side effect of Hanamaki’s zombie condition: the ability to muster up inhuman strength and stamina. Quite useful for lifting furniture out of the way on cleaning day or getting tough jars open, but his eyes turn a pretty frightening shade of red when he “taps into his inner zombie,” as he likes to call it. And there’s the tricky little problem of adrenaline-fueled zombie rages—good thing Hanamaki has always been an easygoing guy as long as he doesn’t have an adrenaline junkie sharing his brain.

“I thought you’ve just been lounging around Matsukawa’s apartment,” Iwaizumi says wryly, shaking some feeling back into his hand after finally admitting his defeat.

They’re all walking back from the cafe—where they’d been getting scowls while making a scene with their competition—to Matsukawa’s place.

Hanamaki, leading the way, smiles cheekily over his shoulder. “Something like that.” 

“Hm.” Iwaizumi digs his hands into his pockets and eyes him suspiciously. “And what’s all that about anyway?”

“Ah, was wondering when you’d ask that,” Hanamaki says with a shrug. “Got sick of my place in Tokyo. Much better view here. Speaking of which, Issei, could you please walk in front of me?”

“Why?” Matsukawa asks.

Hanamaki grins, wiggling his eyebrows at him suggestively. “So I can enjoy the view.”

Matsukawa huffs out a laugh. “Well, who am I to argue with that?” And Hanamaki lightly slaps his ass as he slips ahead of him. 

“You quit your job without one waiting here for you, all so you could look at Matsukawa’s ass more often?” Iwaizumi asks skeptically. “What’s really going on? We’re worried about you.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and Oikawa, you idiot.”

“Still a ‘we,’ then?” Hanamaki presses on. “Being on opposite sides of the upcoming games hasn’t caused a messy divorce y—”

“Hanamaki.”

Hanamaki sighs, and Matsukawa slows to his side, claiming his hand, threading fingers between them to give a firm squeeze. For all his joking and bravado about it, Hanamaki is nervous to let someone else in on this secret, so Matsukawa silently reminds him he’s not going anywhere.

“Let’s talk about it at the apartment, yeah?” Hanamaki asks Iwaizumi, who seems mollified. 

It’s awkward and quiet as they shuffle into the apartment, and Matsukawa brings them all beers from the refrigerator. 

Iwaizumi stares at Hanamaki with a worried frown. “Is it that bad? Whatever is going on with you? I told Oikawa he was worrying too much, that you probably got homesick or lonely in Tokyo, but he’s worried you’re sick or something. That’s not it, right? You destroyed me in that arm wrestling match, so it can’t be that, right? But you didn’t even touch any of the food when we were out, and you’re looking really pale.” 

He takes a sip of his beer and studies Hanamaki some more. “You’re not sick.” Said like he’s come to a conclusion but his face looks like it’s a question.

Hanamaki laughs bitterly. “I dunno, I guess we could call it that.” He rubs a hand down one side of his face and groans. “Okay, fuck it. Let’s get this over with. Iwaizumi, I’m a zombie.”

A beat. Then—

“You’re such an asshole. I was trying to be serious here.”

“So are we,” Matsukawa says. “Dead serious.”

“ _Un_ dead serious,” Hanamaki chimes in.

“I hate you both,” Iwaizumi says. “I don’t even know why I bothered worrying about you.”

“You _should_ be worried,” Hanamaki says. “I have to literally eat human brains or risk turning into one of those mindless monsters from the movies.”

“It’s true,” Matsukawa agrees. “You should see him in the mornings before he’s had his breakfast. Totally out of it and incapable of human speech.”

“Okay, well that’s just because I’ve never been a morning person. But we did stretch it between brains one week when business was slow at Issei’s job—you haven’t truly witnessed the meaning of the ‘hangry’ unless you’ve seen that.”

“I’m leaving,” Iwaizumi growls, though he hasn’t so much as leaned forward to get up off the couch. “I’m leaving and I’m never bothering with you two again and—”

“Hold that thought,” Hanamaki says, pushing his beer into Iwaizumi’s free hand. “And my beer. Don’t let it spill.”

Matsukawa leans back in his seat to watch on with amusement as Hanamaki squats at the end of the couch and tucks the fingers of one hand beneath it. “You really want to hold tight to those drinks,” Matsukawa warns Iwaizumi and takes a sip of his own. 

“Remember how easily I kicked your ass in arm wrestling?” Hanamaki takes a deep breath and then lets it out, eyes turning deep red as he does.

Iwaizumi startles before Hanamaki even starts to lift the end of the couch. And then Hanamaki does with one hand and very little effort, causing Iwaizumi to slide down it until the opposite arm stops him sliding right off.

He spills the beer all over himself.

“Aw man, we told you not to spill.”

Iwaizumi is stunned into silence and Hanamaki puts the couch back down. Kuroo hops up into Iwaizumi’s lap and licks at his wet shirt until Matsukawa shoos him off.

“Have I told you how hot it is when you do that?” Matsukawa tells Hanamaki with a low whistle as he retrieves a towel for Iwaizumi to clean up with.

“Yes, a lot. I can’t believe I stay with you when you just want me for my hot zombie bod.”

“What the hell was that?” Iwaizumi finally lets out as Matsukawa tosses a dish towel at his face. He pats at the stains on the front of his shirt, though it seems like he’s hardly trying to dry them so much as he’s just looking to keep his nervous hands busy. 

Really, he’s handling Hanamaki’s “full zombie” quite well, all things considered.

“We already told you.” Hanamaki scoops up his beer bottle and eyes the lower line of it, about half of what was there before the spill, before shrugging and taking a swig. Then he points to himself and talks slowly, as if talking to a small child. “Zom-bie.”

But Matsukawa can see the anxiety in the stiff set of his shoulders as he sits back down beside him. He’s waiting for Iwaizumi’s brain to catch up with him, for Iwaizumi to freak out.

But all Iwaizumi does then, as realization dawns in his eyes that they have not been joking—well not _lying_ , at least— this entire time, is utter a bewildered and emphatic, “ _How?_ ”

Matsukawa relaxes and knocks his knee against Hanamaki’s. Hanamaki’s world grows a little bit bigger again.

***

“Issei, I have a present for you!”

 _Oh, this is going to be interesting_ , Matsukawa thinks as he arrives home from work.

For the past few days, Hanamaki has been under the influence of a relationship therapist’s brain. It’s been… a lot. He’s been over-analyzing _everything_ and forcing Matsukawa to talk about feelings and driving him just a little bit crazy.

He’s not sure whether the playful singsong tone in Hanamaki’s voice is genuine or the prelude to another round of relationship analysis, but he approaches the bedroom where it came from warily, surprised when he finds several gift-wrapped boxes waiting on the bed and Hanamaki with a familiar impish grin in place.

“What’s all this?”

Hanamaki picks up one box and tosses it to him. “Open and see.” 

Matsukawa tears at the wrapping carefully—apparently this brain gives Hanamaki a skill that he’s otherwise absolutely shit at because Matsukawa has never received a gift so tidily wrapped from him before. “What’s the occasion?”

“Because I love you,” Hanamaki says dismissively. “More specifically, though, because I think you’re very hot with your ridiculous eyebrows and your—now very unironically for me—sexy job, and it’s been killing me not being able to fuck you into oblivion these past few months. So I decided that it’s time to get creative.” He taps his own temple with a conspiratorial look in his eye. “I’ve got _a lot_ of ideas.”

Fuck the wrap job, Matsukawa tears into it with fervor, excitement building up as he finally see the new toy inside. 

“There’s more where that came from.”

Matsukawa meets his eyes, more serious than he’s ever felt in his life. “We’re using this right now. All of them. I don’t care how long it takes.”

“For fuck’s sake, please yes,” Hanamaki agrees, and Matsukawa surges across the room for him. 

***

Not long after that, aspiring actress brain turns out to be one of Matsukawa’s favorites. Okay, sure, he could live without the monologuing and the dramatic reactions to _everything_ , but when Hanamaki decides on the bedroom as his stage?

Well, Matsukawa wouldn’t mind if the taste for roleplay stuck around.

It’s unfortunately followed by the Worst Brain Ever.

Matsukawa feels a little guilty bringing this one home, actually, but it’s a slow week and Hanamaki is getting anxious with hunger as the last brain wears off. He brings it home, safely tucked away with ice packs inside his lunch box as usual, and sets it on the counter with apprehension.

“It’s someone we know this time.”

Hanamaki frowns, pauses the hand that’s reaching for it. “Who do we know that just died?”

“Someone we graduated with,” Matsukawa says solemnly. “Takei Motoko. She died in a car accident a couple days ago.”

Hanamaki’s expression is something between relief and guilt, because he’s hungry and he needs to eat and he probably feels bad that he is so relieved it’s not someone actually close to him. “I don’t remember her.”

“She was our class president back in third year.”

“Oh.” 

He doesn’t take the brain right away and Matsukawa sighs, opening it for him and grabbing the hot sauce out of the fridge. “Your eyes are redder than usual. Go ahead. You need to eat _something_ , and she’s not using it anymore.”

A short while later, they’re sitting at the table—Matsukawa eating yesterday’s leftovers and Hanamaki eating yesterday’s leftovers with brains and hot sauce mixed in—when recognition seems to dawn in Hanamaki’s eyes. “Takei… she was really strict, wasn’t she? I think ‘fun’ is the only word in the dictionary she didn’t know.”

“That’s the one,” Matsukawa agrees.

Hanamaki’s chopsticks stall halfway to his mouth, though he’s already eaten quite a few bites. “Oh no, Issei, didn’t she confess to Oikawa in the last week of school?”

“ _Oh no._ ”

Takei never quite did get over her high school infatuation with their old club captain, it seems, because Matsukawa is treated to many lectures about Oikawa’s most impressive qualities… and not-so-gentle criticisms of all the ways Matsukawa fails at them. 

He knows, logically, that it’s the brain talking, but if Matsukawa wanted to be told about all the ways he was more disappointing compared to the neighbor’s kid, he’d go live with his parents.

Is it wrong to be anxiously waiting for the next dead body to roll into the funeral home so he can know some peace in his own apartment again? 

It’s painful when they have a video chat scheduled with Oikawa and Iwaizumi, too, because suddenly Hanamaki only cares about whatever Oikawa has to say, about what Oikawa is doing with his time, about what Oikawa had for breakfast that morning.

Matsukawa feels gross witnessing the whole thing, while Oikawa thinks it’s Hanamaki messing with him as usual, especially at the point that Hanamaki declares him the handsomest player on any of the men’s volleyball teams at the impending Olympic games.

“Iwa-chan, are you going to let Makki keep hitting on me like this?”

“Good point,” Iwaizumi says. “Hanamaki, stop inflating his ego before he floats away.”

Oikawa whines. “Iwa-chan! Watch out or else Makki is going to steal me away from you, at this rate.”

Hanamaki actually blushes at the prospect and Matsukawa flicks him in the forehead. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

***

Matsukawa has never been so grateful for cranky old man brain. There have been several varieties of that over the months, but the one after Oikawa admirer brain is the best yet, if only thanks to its timing. 

Hanamaki flips through all the channels on the television, complains about how there’s nothing to watch, shouts about the neighbors above them being too loud, and wears his flannel shirt tucked into his pants. There’s the faint hint of white hair at his scalp that they’ll have to dye again sooner than later, and a mug of coffee spiked with hot sauce in one of his hands.

But there’s also a mural of their favorite park—a place near Aoba Johsai High where Hanamaki first admitted his feelings for Matsukawa during second year—on one of the walls from a week of artist brain, and a guitar Hanamaki bought on a whim during musician brain and has been trying to learn in earnest since then, and a happy fat cat curled up beside Hanamaki as it purrs in its sleep.

So Matsukawa’s boyfriend changes hobbies and interests and jobs faster than a freak quick set. So he has a craving for human brains. 

It’s really not all that weird when you get used to it.

Hanamaki notices him staring and tilts his head. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” Matsukawa says cheerfully, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “You’re the best zombie boyfriend a guy could have.”

Hanamaki has a playful glint in his eye as he pokes his side. “That’s ‘zom _bae_ ’ to you.”

Matsukawa shakes his head and laughs. They curl up together on the couch and settle for an old movie they’ve already watched a few times. Hanamaki falls asleep snoring like a seventy-year-old with sleep apnea.

And Matsukawa loves him more with every day and every version he gets. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!!


End file.
